


we only find love in chaos

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Series: Daensa Week 2021 [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Families of Choice, No Robert's Rebellion | Robert Baratheon Never Rebels Against the Targaryens, Nonbinary Satin Flowers, POV Sansa Stark, POV Third Person, Past Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell - Freeform, Space Opera, all relationships will EVENTUALLY happen, but the plot comes first, it’s a space opera right?, probably more triggers than i've actually tagged so please tell me what to tag!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:42:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: Written forDay 7 of Daensa Week 2021 on Tumblr, prompt: Free Choice AU.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Meera Reed/Margaery Tyrell, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Myrcella Baratheon/Arya Stark, Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen, Satin Flowers/Jon Snow
Series: Daensa Week 2021 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165004
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	we only find love in chaos

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Chaos by](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9Vwy7Gdnio)[ Gia Woods](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Xu5vUtcrKOuWbq3r84Xo0?si=W0Xm1UKPSZCmbQI_lQCQDg)
> 
> [Please also check out the gifset for this fic on Tumblr and like and reblog!](https://lesbiangrimalkin.tumblr.com/post/644133070842249216/we-only-find-love-in-chaos)
> 
> this is NOT a jon///sa or jon///erys or jon///rya fic!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes to the Wall, and discovers that the Dragon Queen is not as evil as she is said to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait on this bitch, but i hope you enjoy it <3

Sansa draws in a tense breath when she sees the Dragon Queen’s ship approaching, the great steel wings lacquered black and red, even the outer body of the ship emanating viciousness. Her immediate response is to panic, to run her hands across the consoles in an attempt to do anything, everything to avoid the ship, but Arya’s hand upon her wrist stops her. 

“Stay sane, Sans,” Arya hisses, beneath her breath as if anyone could overhear her. “I can’t captain this ship on my own.” Although Arya puts up a facade of strength, her teeth are gritted and her voice comes out worried.

She forces herself to calm, think rather than rush blindly into things. Now that she’s restored her composure, she notes that the ship is descending towards the icy surface of Norda, aiming towards the black wall that divides the main continent on Norda into two, and that it is far enough away from her ship that they will likely go unnoticed. Letting out a deep breath, she flicks a switch to turn the lights off, plunging the ship into darkness except for the lights on the consoles. 

Even in the darkness, Sansa can tell that Arya is frowning at her. “What was that for?” she demands, a silhouette against the bright lights of the buttons. 

Sansa’s eyes are trained above, towards where the Dragon Queen’s ship is making to dock at the Wall. Her voice is quiet, but a plan is starting to take form as she speaks. 

“I need to know what she’s here for,” Sansa says, her voice steady now. “And I want to see this Dragon Queen for myself.”

Arya leans over the main console to stare out the window as well. She raises an eyebrow at Sansa, her gaze obviously questioning Sansa’s decisions. “For all your smarts, sister, you can be very foolish sometimes.”

Sansa’s fingers dance over the buttons, nervousness in her muscles, and she presses the button to warm up the small ship attached to the side of the larger one and start to power it up. “Foolish, yes, but I hope that this gamble will pay off.”

When Arya connects the dots in her mind and realises exactly what Sansa is planning, she immediately brandishes a finger at her angrily. “Oh, no. You are so not leaving me alone here to freeze myself close to death. I’m coming with you.” She is already stubbornly set on this, judging by her tone and lowered brows

“As you said, it’s foolish,” Sansa says, vaguely, mind more on the intricacies of her plan than Arya’s complaints. 

“Yes, but it’s unfair that you always get to do the fun things and I’m left to defend the ship!” complains Arya, smacking her hand upon the flat of the window angrily. “I’m either going to come with you, or... or I’ll take the ship and do some other things! Casterly is in the next system along, and I’ll be back before you return from your _very_ ill-advised trip to the Wall.” She slaps the window again to punctuate her point, and Sansa winces, hoping that she has not damaged the glass. 

Sansa sighs, knowing that this is an argument that she will not be able to win. “Very well, Arya. Just... be safe on Casterly, alright? You know how much the Lannisters hate us.” 

Arya snickers loudly at the mention of the Lannisters, and Sansa smiles at the memory of the time when Joffrey, the current Casterly ruler-regent Cersei Lannister’s son and heir, had died while she was in his court. In her opinion, it was a death well deserved, for she had heard his taunts about her virginity and Ned and Robb’s deaths under suspicious circumstances, and spent much of her time there despising him for it. And they had more than paid them back for the suffering that Sansa had experienced at Cersei’s and Joffrey’s hands, stealing much of Casterly’s supplies of gold. 

“Of course I’ll be safe. And Margaery’s there, too, isn’t she? She’s your friend, right? She’ll help me.” Arya says, wheedling her way into the job. 

“Yes, Margaery is still waiting on her marriage to Tommen to go ahead, the last I heard of her.” Margaery’s family, the Tyrells, felt that a political match between their daughter and the heir to Casterly would greatly improve their status, though Joffrey had died before they could marry and Margaery was passed on to their youngest son, Tommen.

This causes Arya to snicker again. “She’s got to be marrying him for the money. He’s not worth much otherwise.”

Sansa laces her hands together, smiling at the memory of Margaery’s soft dark hair and gentle eyes. “I doubt the marriage is anything but political. Besides, Margaery made it quite clear to me that her... interests... reside elsewhere than Tommen.”

“You can just say that you and Margaery fucked, Sans, you know that? It’s not like I care about who you fuck. Margaery’s better than horrible Joffrey was, anyways.” 

A violent-red blush flares up on Sansa’s cheeks as she swats at Arya’s hand, smiling despite it. “Arya! Don’t be so crass!”

Arya just laughs at her. “What? I’m not a child any more, Sans. I know what people do when they’re together and they like each other.” 

Sansa tries to roll her eyes at her, ineffectively. “Arya, you’re still too young for a relationship.” 

“Now that’s just unfair! I’m older than you were when you first dallied with Margaery.” 

“Oh, stop it, Arya, you have what you wanted. You can go to Casterly while I travel to the Wall, and then... if we meet up at—” Sansa traces her finger across a screen and a map of Norda pops up. She uses two fingers to pinch into the map view, picks out a spot a little below Norda’s capital city, Winterfell. “There.” The system whirrs softly as she puts the coordinates in, saves them as a returning point. 

Arya nods, her demeanour immediately changing from teasing to serious. “Got it.” 

“Okay,” Sansa says, uncertainty beginning to worm its way into her mind. “Right, then. Once I’m prepared, I’ll set off for the Wall.” 

Arya tugs a gun from her belt, holds it out to Sansa. It’s dark brown and utilitarian, leather-wrapped handle comfortable in Sansa’s grip. Clicking the casing open to look inside the barrel, she finds that it is already loaded, six bullets of darkened metal all ready to be fired.

“It’s better than that fancy little one that Margaery gave you,” comments Arya. “Works good in the cold. It’s Nordarn, like me and you.” 

Sansa’s smile in response is soft genuine. “Thank you, Arya.” She slides it into the holster on her thigh, accessible through a slit in her dress, and tugs the straps of the holster tighter.

Arya’s smile, in contrast, is small and sure. “Good luck, Sans.”

She pulls Arya close then, blinks away the tears in her eyes as she wraps her arms tightly around her little sister. “Same to you, Arry.” Arya is not so little any more, growing up into a powerful and vicious fighter in her own right, but she is still plenty shorter than Sansa, and will always be her little sister. 

“Okay, okay,” Arya jokes at the firmness of the embrace, but hugs her back, chin digging into Sansa’s shoulder. She holds tighter when Sansa attempts to pull away, trying to hold them together like glue. Keep them together forever, because they are a team, because they are pack and do not want to be separated. 

“I’ve got to leave, Arya,” Sansa mutters when the hug lasts long enough that it becomes uncomfortable, her shoulder starting to become sore from Arya’s chin against it. 

“I’ll miss you, Sans.” Arya says, almost sniffling — but not quite, because _Arya Stark_ , ruthless warrior, does not sniffle. 

“Me too,” Sansa replies, her eyes glassy. 

“The pack will survive.”

“The pack will survive.”

It’s something that Ned used to say to them. _When the cold winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

They don’t have much of a pack, only the two of them alone in the world, without their direwolves, without any of their siblings with them. But it’s a pack, still, and that’s better than no pack at all. 

* * *

Sansa hates furs, hates pelts, for they remind her too much of poor dead Lady, dead in a place far from home. But Norda’s temperatures, as she knows all too well, are unforgiving, and she needs to be warm to prevent becoming frostbitten, or worse.

So she slides a brown-gray pelt around her shoulders, pulls a fur-lined hat over her head, works her fingers into black leather gloves. She stops short of parading herself in front of the mirror, though, because she has long outgrown such foolish and childish things as vanity. 

Thus prepared, she walks down into the hull of the ship, where the temperature plummets downwards rapidly and she is glad of the extra warmth afforded to her by the furs. Inside the hull, attached against the metal by magnets, hangs a smaller ship, with enough equipment to last several people for a short trip. There’s dried food, water and purification supplies, extra clothing and fuel supplies in reserve. Sansa goes around the ship, double- and triple-checking everything before she sets off. Once the equipment passes the tests, Sansa presses a button to lower the door on the hull, opening it up to the outside world. Snow rushes into her face, stinging and reddening her cheeks, and she pulls out a pair of goggles that she presses over her eyes against the fierce onslaught of snow.

The small white flakes smearing across her goggles do weaken her vision, but Sansa does not need overly sharp vision as she pushes the smaller ship out of the belly of the larger one, sliding it downwards till it lands with a small thud on the snow. She spares one last look back at the ship before stepping out as well, reaching up to tug the hull’s door back downwards and close it behind her.

Sansa opens the hatch of the ship just quick enough that she gets in without too much excess snow joining her. Once the window has slammed shut around her, Sansa slides the goggles off her eyes and sets them aside, pushes at the buttons to start up the ship’s systems, blowing dust from the consoles and pressing the button to heat the interior up.

After a few moments of waiting, the old systems come online, and Sansa puts the coordinates of the Wall’s main dock, Blackcastle, into the navigational system, which is aged and weary compared to the more modern one installed in the main ship.

Sansa belts herself in, gives herself a bit of time to familiarise herself with the instruments in the ship, before pushing the buttons to hover and accelerate, the snow battering at her windscreen as the ship moves forwards. She pulls the hat off her head, tugs the furs off her shoulders to allow her movements to be more efficient, and switches on the weather shield, creating a heated area over the windscreen where the snow melts away, clearing her field of vision. 

“To the Dragon Queen,” she says to herself, sounding more confident than she actually is. The watch on her wrist beeps with a message from Arya: _Everything fine?_

A small smile curls up the edges of Sansa’s mouth, and she takes one hand off the consoles to tap out a reply. _Yes, it’s all fine. And you say I mother you_ , she adds sarcastically.

Arya sends back an indignant message a moment later, but Sansa ignores it in favour of scanning the horizon, knuckles white where she grips the levers and knobs to control the vehicle, seeking out a place to stop for the night. The snows have come in heavy and hit hard this winter, with drifts flying through the air and the heat from the vehicle the only reason why Sansa isn’t buried beneath flurries of snow. Most of the land is completely whitened by the snow, with only a few dark pieces of the land beneath poking through, and there are few houses or stations built in this area that Sansa can stop at. It would be better to continue through the night, and stop when she reaches a station. Her decision thus made, Sansa presses the buttons and the console grows brighter, readying for the long night ahead.

She settles in, prepares herself for the journey awaiting her, and looks up to the sky, seeing the constellations there. The direwolf runs proud and rampant across the growing darkness, and she smiles at the memory of Ned’s arm around her, directing her gaze up, up, up, until her vision was full of galaxies and myths of long ago. All the years since then have not stolen that moment from her memories, nor soiled it, and Sansa is glad of it, for it means there is always something happy for her to look back to.

* * *

The journey is but a blink of an eye in retrospect, even her childhood home of Winterfell being passed over in favour of speed and a quick arrival at the Wall. Unsurprisingly, given that it is none other than the Dragon Queen whose ship is docked at the Wall, there are plenty of ships milling around in her wake, and Sansa sneaks into an empty and shadowed dock easily, avoiding the security checks by sticking to the side of a much larger supply ship as it enters the docking station. 

Before she emerges from her ship, she makes sure to double-check the security settings, placing a concealment layer over the ship and ensuring that the lock will stay secure. Once that is done, Sansa pulls a hood from a compartment and sets it on her lap as she ties her long auburn hair back for practicality. She tucks it into the neck of her cloak once her hair is pulled away and lifts it over her head, pulls the furs around her neck tight, and steels herself to go outside.

Immediately, the snow-filled winds begin to buffet her, trying to push her hood off her head. Sansa clutches leather-gloved hands to the fabric and attempts to not appear over-conspicuous, trying to blend in with the cloaked and hooded people that swarm over the station and docks, clearly unprepared for the harsh winter of Norda with their exposed hands clutching at thin cloaks and shoulders bare compared to Sansa’s expanse of fur over her shoulders. 

She steps out from the shadows rapidly, her head bowed in order that her features can barely be seen, and joins the influx of people headed towards the centre of Blackcastle. Sansa knows not exactly why so many people are here, but she guesses that the Dragon Queen’s presence has drawn them, called to them like a flame does to moths. That is something that all of them have in common, then.

For the most part, she follows the crowd, and only peels away from them when it becomes clear that they are headed to the main sleeping quarters of Blackcastle, a place where Sansa will doubtless come under heavier scrutiny. Instead of the going to main part of Blackcastle, Sansa turns aside, calls up a map of the Wall on her watch and zooms in, attempting to find a place where she can lie low until she has to remove her hood and finally come into the daylight, be open about her identity. She finds somewhere on the map, a small block of rooms to the east of Blackcastle, and starts off towards it, hurrying in an attempt to get away before she attracts attention. 

Sansa ducks into an alley and almost runs down it, beginning to work her way through the labyrinth of alleys that twist and worm through Blackcastle, clicking through the directions on her watch to guide her as she does so. She’s working her way up to the block, confidence steadily building as she walks undiscovered, when she glances downwards, unthinkingly, and gasps at who she glimpses beneath her. 

It’s been a long, long while since she’d last seen him. Sansa didn’t even know what had happened to him—for all she knew, he might have died without her being any the wiser. He’s remained at the Wall, it seems, even while the rest of the previous world had crumbled to dust and ash around them.

“Jon,” Sansa whispers, feeling the name fade into the ice-laced air. She wants to forget all ideas of secrecy and throw away her cover to run to Jon, ask him all the questions that are bubbling up within her. It is only the harsh reminder of her nails digging into the leather-gloved flesh of her palms that stops her. The Dragon Queen is still here, and Sansa can not risk revealing herself so quickly.

She slips back into the shadows and walks to the block of rooms, letting herself in by picking the lock of the outside back-end door, then the lock on the door of an empty room. The room is empty, comfortingly so, for it allows Sansa to rest easy and recollect herself. Sansa shuts the door behind her, but does not remove any of her clothes, as the room is cold from no heating. Lying down on the worn, dusty sofa, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, Sansa looks up at the ceiling, observing the chiaroscuro of dark mold growing over the light paint. Cracks are spiderwebbed through the material of the ceiling, and Sansa grimaces when she hears a nasty creak coming from above. Still, she muses, it is better to have this place than no place at all.

Sansa taps out a message to Arya, informing her that she has arrived at the Wall, before closing the device down and resting her head on the arm of the sofa. Despite the weariness she feels, sleep is still a long time coming, and she lies awake thinking of anything and everything for a long while.

* * *

The next morning, she blinks to wakefulness, eyes bleary, and when she manages to comprehend everything she sits bolt upright, feeling her heart begin to thrum faster in her chest as if there is a threat oncoming. Sansa is panicking for barely a moment before she comes to her senses and starts to calm down, taking in deep, restorative breaths.

Without Arya there to assist her, it does take a while for Sansa to consider her plans. She does not want to rush and end up trapped in the clutches of the Targaryens, but neither does she want to delay for long enough that the Dragon Queen leaves the Wall. 

In the end, she decides to use today to scout out the area, discover where the Dragon Queen is staying and observe the security around her. A treacherous part of her wonders about Jon, tries to pull her focus away from what she is here for, and she has to forcibly shove the idea from her mind in favour of keeping her attention on the Dragon Queen.

She finds herself considering the matter of the Dragon Queen quite thoroughly for a few moments. Little is known about her besides the fact that she comes from the great Targaryen dynasty, sister to kings and near-equal to them in power over the galaxy, and it is whispered that she has the unholy Targaryen temperament that led to Aerys’s great burning reign across the galaxy. The mystery around her only manages to intrigue Sansa more. She wants to know this woman, perhaps more than anything else in the world.

Sansa dresses still thinking of her, wondering about her in the silence in place of any conversation. Again, she slides the hood over her head, and makes sure to leave no traces of her presence in the room, wiping everything that she has touched clean of any possible fingerprints before taking the wetted cloth with her. It is likely that she will return for the night, but it does not hurt her to be careful. 

Her journey away from her hideout and towards the main part of Blackcastle is relatively uneventful, for she blends in with the crowds easily and few suspicious glances are thrown her way. It helps that many others are similarly dressed to her, with the hoods of their cloaks pulled up all the way over their heads, as it means it is more difficult to pick her out from the crowd. 

She peels away from the crowd, however, when she realises that they are headed for some kind of checking point that will doubtless require Sansa to reveal herself, and finds a covered place to hide out, squeezed in-between two buildings that smell of animals. Watching the people file through the checking point, she gazes over the conglomeration of buildings, eyeing them up to find one that she could possibly hide out in. 

It seems to be no use, though; all the buildings seem to be occupied, and there does not appear to be a way to get past the checking point. She curses her lack of foresight, for she could have obtained a fake ID to pass through unnoticed, but she had not and now she is trapped, unable to get through the checking point. 

Sansa sighs and leans back, trying to figure out the best course of action. She would prefer not to start a fight this early, but if she must... her hand goes to the gun strapped at her side, solid and reliable. _It’s Nordarn, like you and me._

And like Jon, as well. Although her memories of her younger days are far behind her, she still remembers the scene in Winterfell when Jon left, how the smaller children sobbed while she and Robb remained stoic. How much Arya missed him, afterwards, even though she never spoke of her longing for her bastard brother’s company. Sansa knows that her mission here is twofold now that she has learned that Jon is here: she is still going to discover the Dragon Queen’s plans, and she must also speak to Jon, as well. 

A motion from the check point stirs her interest, and she glances over, gaze finding the disturbance easily. Someone with long, dark hair is arguing with a guard, and she tries to sneak closer to hear what they are saying. 

“Jon is my friend! Why am I not allowed to see him?”

The guard frowns at him, disapproval evident in his gaze. “Jon Snow is in a meeting with the Dragon Queen, and is not to be disturbed until the meeting ends.” 

His words come as a surprise to Sansa, for historically there has been little love between the Starks and the Targaryens. While Aerys was in his mad years, he had burned an uncle who Sansa never knew, and Ned had supported his friend Robert Baratheon’s failed rebellion, barely being let off with his life. Thus, word that Jon is cooperating with the Targaryen queen comes as a strange and unwelcome surprise to her. 

The argument is still going on, and Sansa sighs at the noise, leaning back against the wall behind her, before she stands back up, a plan forming in her head. With a cursory glance around, she steps out of her hiding place and slips back in to rejoin the crowd, trying to push through with a minimum of disturbance. Eventually, she emerges towards the front, and the two are still bickering back-and-forth. 

She taps the long-haired person’s arm. “Why don’t you come away from this,” she says, turning her voice soft and reassuring. “I’m sure that you can see Jon later.”

The guard appears relieved, even though none of the fight has left the other’s face. “Indeed, please listen to — them. There will be time for you to see Jon after he has finished his meeting.”

They look like they will start arguing again, so Sansa tightens her grip around their wrist and forcibly pulls them away, walking back through the crowd with a firm grip to stop them from going back to their argument.

“Who are you?” They ask, and Sansa realises that, due to her hood being pulled up over her head, they have not caught a glimpse of Sansa’s face yet. And neither does she want them to, yet, for anyone in the crowd might recognise her and give her identity away. So, in response, she only says that she is a friend.

She can tell that they are still suspicious of her, but thankfully they hold back on questioning her for the moment. Continuing through the crowd until she reaches the fringe of it, she scans the area around her for a building where they can hide out for a short while. Her gaze catches on a reasonably empty building, only occupied by a few people, and she drags them towards it, hurrying away from the crowds.

Once they are inside, and there are no eyes staring at them, Sansa removes her hood. They are sighing and rubbing at their wrist, which is slightly reddened from Sansa’s stern grip before, and do not notice initially, but when they glance up, already starting to complain — something along the lines of _there’s only one person that I’d allow to drag me around like that_ — their sentence trails off. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” they say, their words chosen cautiously.

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Sansa folds her gloved hands in her lap and leans back in her chair. “My name is Sansa Stark, and I am Jon Snow’s kin. And who are you?”

“Satin,” they say, smiling cheerily. “I’m a... friend of Jon Snow, but if you want to call me other things that are a lot worse, then feel free.” They strum their lip with one finger carelessly before adding, “I do go by they/them over anything else, if you were wondering. Or, more generally around the men here, just _whore_.”

“Yes, I tried not to assume,” Sansa replies. “Now, I need to know something, Satin, before I trust you. Can you keep a secret?”

“With all due respect, I’ve spent the majority of my life so far keeping secrets.” Their smile disappears, replaced by a more somber expression. “But I don’t think this is the kind of secret that involves lords visiting whores behind their wives’s backs.”

“No, it isn’t.” Despite her initial apprehension about them, Satin is fast growing on her. “This one’s about the purpose of my visit here.” 

Satin leans in closer, leaning their chin on their hand. “If you don’t want to say it all, then don’t. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

With those words said, a weight seems to slide off Sansa’s shoulders. “I appreciate it. Now, what I need your help with...” she glances out of the window, gaze landing on the crowds at the check point, “is getting me past the checkpoints unnoticed.”

They nod, but their brow furrows as they think. “Okay, I think I can do that, but I’m going to come through with you.”

“Of course,” Sansa nods, understanding.

“Oh, and it would help if you had a weapon.” 

* * *

She watches as Satin peels away from the crowd with her heart thundering in her chest, sure that soon they will be discovered and caught. Yet no such thing happens, even though Satin is far closer to the electronics of the checkpoint than they should be, by rights.

Her grip on the holster of her gun tightens, knuckles most likely turning white underneath her leather gloves, ready to draw and fire at any moment. She keeps flicking her gaze between the checkpoint ahead and Satin’s location by the technology (stored under a metal panel in a certain pillar) that makes the check point _work_ , although she tries her hardest not to and to keep her eyes on the crowd, lest it give them and their plan away to any of the officials.

In momentary glimpses, she watches as Satin opens the panel covering the vulnerable insides and delves in, hand working far too slowly through the electronics to disconnect and cut wires. Sansa begins to panic as she nears the checkpoint, the stress of the possibility that it all could fail weighing heavily on her.

Satin tugs something free from the mains, and the whole checkpoint starts flickering, lights flashing in a wild sequence of colours. The guards try and keep everything composed, but Satin does something else and one of the lights jerks down violently, almost hitting some particularly unlucky person’s head. Chaos erupts throughout the crowd, with some people moving away and others taking a chance on the gate.

Sansa joins the latter group, running towards the closed gates at full speed. Her hood almost flies back, away from her head, and she has to tug it back into place again, heart pounding anxiously in her chest.

 _Come on,_ she whispers under her breath, hoping for Satin to get the wiring right and open the gates. She starts to slow down as she nears the gates in preparation for whatever might happen, stopping just clear of the gates.

There’s a loud beeping noise, and when nothing happens initially, Sansa starts to fear that the plan has gone wrong. But, next moment, the gates are swinging open dramatically, and she joins the smaller crowd of people that have made up their minds to run through them and reach the other side.

Immediately after she is through the gates, she runs away from the crowd and sneaks up towards the edge of the check point where Satin is, heart still rabbiting in her chest with nervousness. She runs up to the top of a lump of snow and leans over the fence that separates either side through the checkpoint. It is far taller than her, and she wonders how Satin plans to climb it, for it is both smooth and high.

The sounds of scrabbling from the other side make her stomach twist with nerves and worries, curling up into knots. She tries to peer through the not-quite-opaque wall, attempting to see if Satin is behind it, but it is not see-through enough for her to do so.

A shout from above her causes her to look up, and she sees a single hand reaching over. Then a head, with long hair hanging downwards, and the first part of a torso.

“They’re on my tail,” Satin calls down to her. “You’d better find somewhere to hide after this, and quickly.”

Sansa throws a panicked, cursory glance around the area and notices a gap in between two houses. “Got one!”

“You’re going to have to catch me,” Satin yells as they continue to pull themself over, their legs scrabbling upwards for purchase.

“I will,” Sansa promises, holding out her arms, and then Satin jumps, falling down, down, down.

She only staggers awkwardly under his weight for a moment before he’s sliding away and onto the rock-hard snow beneath. “Where have you found that we can hide?” He asks.

“There.” She points to the dark and narrow alleyway. “That good?”

“Yeah,” Satin breathes, panting heavily, and they make a break for it, sprinting across the snowy ground and disappearing into the alleyway. They stay there, backs pressed against the wall. Sansa’s breath rises into the air as she calms down, her heartbeat returning to normal with time. Once the commotion outside has died down, she dares to lean out of the alley to peer around, noticing to her surprise that the area is devoid of any guards that she can see. 

She turns back to Satin and asks, “Do you know your way around this part? I can’t get a map for this part of the Wall.” 

Satin cocks a dark brow at her, almost as if they are exasperated by the question. “I may look like just a pretty face to you, Miss Stark, but I do have more to me than just beauty. Yes, of course I do, for I’ve been here for several months now. The layout’s pretty well engrained into my mind by now.”

Relieved, Sansa sighs happily. “Does this mean there’s a place where we could stay the night?” 

“Yeah,” Satin shrugs, “but I wouldn’t go to sleep just yet. I’m pretty sure that you still have things to do, and I have a feeling that you’ll need my help with this. Going it alone, in an unfamiliar place, is likely to go badly for you.” 

She nods, already starting to trust Satin despite the deep-engrained instincts that warn her against it. “You have my thanks, Satin.”

Their lips crook into a smile. “Thank me when this is all over, otherwise your thanks are just empty.”

“Okay,” Sansa says. “Do you know where the Dragon Queen is staying?”

Satin sucks in a heavy breath through their teeth, clearly giving their opinion on her question — that it is utter foolishness for Sansa to be actively seeking out the Dragon Queen, a woman know for the danger she brings and for her fiery Targaryen temperament. Finally, they reply, “You are a fool, and will most likely get killed doing it, but I’ll help you, just because I have a special fondness for foolish people.”

In return, she grins. “I like that you have a special fondness for foolish people. Alright, so where is she staying?”

Their expression turns serious, smile disappearing. “You sure about this?”

Sansa clicks the casing of the gun back into place, her own grin similarly disappearing to be replaced by a grim determination. “More than anything else in the world.”

“Then follow me.” Satin replies, glancing around quickly before starting off through the alleyways. 

* * *

They crouch behind a wall, and Sansa anxiously looks around the corner, scanning the area for guards. There are a lot more guards around here than at the rest of the Wall, a good sign that she is approaching the Dragon Queen’s territory. 

“I’ll go in alone,” Sansa says. Before, she had been uncertain whether or not she’d ask Satin to go with her, but looking at the fear in their eyes and the nervousness in the almost-unnoticeable twitching of their hands, she realises that it would only cause them pain rather than anything else. She tugs the gun from its holster and re-checks it before stepping out, keeping herself pressed against the wall.

None of the guards seem to have noticed her yet, thankfully, yet Sansa still does not allow herself to feel anything but on edge and tense. The wall digs into the skin of her shoulders and back, her teeth gritted as she glances towards a guard and sees their gaze turning towards her. 

Sansa holds her breath and continues edging forwards, bit by bit, sneaking past the guards’s gaze. The entrance to the building is growing steadily closer, each step bringing her torturously closer. _Keep going_ , she whispers under her breath, _don’t give up yet. Keep hiding._

The guard at the entrance levels a stony gaze near her, and Sansa shuffles along a little faster, each movement intense with the need to keep herself hidden. She inches closer to the entrance, to the archway that is wide open for her. 

Rushing across a gap and pressing herself to the wall surrounding the archway is a move that is full of risk, but she makes it seemingly without anyone seeing her. Her breath stays caught in her throat, and she finds herself unable to let out anything except the smallest of gasps, moving with her body pinned up against the wall and the guard immediately in front of her.

Finally, she’s right next to the archway, and slowly she draws her gun into her hand, slipping her finger into the loop and making sure to keep it away from the trigger, lest it accidentally fire and draw attention. She looks at the guards in front of her, checking that their gaze is firmly fixed on the scene in front of them, and then — she’s slipping through the archway and there is nowhere left to hide, for the corridor has no hollows in the walls that she can run into when someone looks at her. 

Sansa takes a deep breath and starts running down the corridor, the bright lights on the grey floor hurting her eyes after she has seen nothing but grey skies and pale snow all day. Her footsteps begin to draw attention, the guards shouting from the entrance, and she runs faster, feet like thunder against the floor as she hurtles down the corridors. She has no sense of where she is going and no map to guide her way, leaving the corridors a maze to her. 

Glancing behind her, she notices that the guards are starting to notice her and give chase. Her heart is thunder in her chest as she runs, entirely unconcerned with hiding now. A guard comes in front of her, trying to block her off, but she brandishes her gun and they step out of her path quickly when they see that. She keeps running, the muscles of her legs starting to burn, until eventually the sound of the guards behind her fades away and she is left alone. 

The corridor gleams silver around her, and fear starts to seep bone-deep, alone and almost helpless as she is. Sansa steels herself and continues down the corridor, surprised at the lack of security there — surely, the Dragon Queen would be well-defended, given her status as a Targaryen royal, yet seemingly that is not the case. Perhaps she trusted in the fear that her presence would induce to protect her. If so, she had not thought of Sansa, who has never let bloody reputations stop her. 

From somewhere far behind her, there are footsteps, and the vague sound of arguing. With the voices that far away, it is difficult to make out exactly who they are or what they are saying, but the noise still makes her hurry to push herself into a small gap in the wall of the corridor to try and hide from any eyes that might look her way. 

Unexpectedly, a message comes through from Arya, and Sansa pauses her survey of the corridor for people to look at the message, frowning as she swipes upwards. Arya had said it would be a simple trip to Casterly, with little contact with her. This seems suspicious, an unexpected change in the plan.

 _No time to explain,_ reads the first line. _I have something that I need to tell you, and you need to get out of there, while you still can._

Sansa frowns as she types out a message to send back. _I can’t. Jon’s here,_ Jon _, Arya, and I need to talk to him. And I still haven’t finished the mission I arrived here for._

 _If you stay, you’re in danger,_ Arya returns quickly. _And I can’t lose you like all the others._

 _You won’t lose_ _me_.

_Please, be careful, Sansa. Especially around the Dragon Queen._

Sansa responds with an acknowledgment and a promise that she will be safe, then turns her attention back to her task of sneaking in to the Dragon Queen’s quarters. She glances around the corridor, checking that nobody is there, before moving out from her hiding-place and running down the corridor, towards her rooms. 

The doors are locked, naturally, but Sansa was prepared for that, and she fishes the lock-pick from the pocket of her trousers, silently thankful that the locks on Blackcastle’s doors are traditional rather than sophisticated modern locks that are far more difficult to pick. It takes her a few tries, but eventually she manages to get the doors open and slip into the chambers, gently shutting the door behind her. 

Aware that she does not have much time before someone comes back, she hurries over to the table where she spotted several sheets of paper, flicking through them in the hope that she will discover something that will tell her about the Dragon Queen’s reasons for coming to the Wall. Yet no matter how much she looks, nothing turns up on the papers, which seem to be a catalogue of the Wall’s finances instead. 

A noise from outside, far closer than before, startles Sansa away from her perusing, and she hears a voice, seemingly irritated. “I need to check something, first. Give me time, Jon. These Others you speak of will not attack the Wall yet.” 

The door starts to open, and she abandons the papers to duck away and hide in the nearest hiding-place, which is an old dark-wood wardrobe, holding her breath as she peers out from behind the gap in the wardrobe. Her eyes widen when she sees the Dragon Queen herself there, pale-haired, amethyst-eyed. 

She looks little like what Sansa imagined, for while she does have the distinctive Targaryen look of violet eyes and white hair, she does not seem intimidating at all. Even with the limited view the wardrobe allows, Sansa can tell that the Dragon Queen is far shorter than her, and her dark clothing slashed with red silk does nothing but make her appear somber and melancholy rather than intimidating. 

As she enters and glances around the room, she does not seem to see Sansa, hidden in the wardrobe, nor the disruption to her papers. Having given the room a cursory look, she strides towards the centre, where a large table and a curved control board have been set up. Dismissing the table, the Dragon Queen stands at the control board, looking out across the Wall, and flicks several levers and buttons on it. A screen unfolds in front of her, burning blue at the edges and flickering red in the centre. 

Sansa tries to adjust her position in the wardrobe, without making any noticeable noise, so that she may have a better view. While she is struggling against the clothes, she accidentally kicks the wall behind her, and must hold in a curse that threatens to slip out of her sealed lips. She holds in a tense breath as the Dragon Queen looks up, with her eyes flashing in something that could be anger. There is a moment of intense struggle within her soul as the Dragon Queen looks around the room, but thankfully she must have passed it off as something minor, as she turns back to the control board and continues. 

In the middle of the fiery red, someone appears. Initially their image is flickering and inconsistent, the edges of their form cast in darkness and shadows, but quickly their face becomes clear.

Even with the ripples running through their body, Sansa can tell who they are. She’s seen his face enough, for he is one of the kings of the galaxy, and he is also the man who took Sansa’s aunt from her. _Rhaegar Targaryen_. His name alone is enough to spark a bitter, vicious hatred in Sansa, and were he here now, she would surely have pressed her gun through the opening in between the wardrobe’s doors and shot him there and then. But he is only a projection, and thus she must remain secret. 

“My sweet sister.” Rhaegar’s tone is devoid of emotion. “I trust your time in Norda has been fruitful so far? Is the boy cooperating with you?”

The Dragon Queen swallows and nods. “He is, indeed, though Jon still thinks himself a Snow. I do not think that now is the time to reveal that you are his father, brother, else he might stop working with us.”

Though she says it in a perfectly neutral manner, this news shocks Sansa. Jon’s father is Rhaegar Targaryen, ruthless prince of the galaxy and heir to the Iron Throne? It makes little sense at first, but Sansa’s mind starts to piece all the parts together and she realises. _Rhaegar and Lyanna... Jon must be their son._

When she looks back at their conversation, Rhaegar is smiling. “Good, good,” he says. “Soon the monsters north of the Wall will feel the flames of the Targaryens, and Jon shall be with us, a Targaryen at last.” His smile is menacing, sending chills down the back of Sansa’s neck. 

“That day shall be a great day for the Targaryens,” the Dragon Queen says, though she is not smiling. “I shall return to you very soon, for there is only one last thing that I must do. My sweet brother, I look forwards to reuniting with you.”

“And I, you,” Rhaegar says, just before the Dragon Queen reaches forwards and switches the projection off, pale winter light returning to the room. Her hands linger on the control board for a moment longer, eyebrows lowered into a frown, before she turns and goes to lock the door securely.

Sansa gulps, fearful, and the dark look in the Dragon Queen’s eyes does nothing to assuage her fear. She holds her breath like she is prepared for the icy surface of a lake to break underneath her within moments, and tries to calm herself, remembering that Arya needs her, that Jon needs her. 

When the Dragon Queen speaks those fatal words, her voice is quiet, devoid of any anger. “I know that you are hiding here. For the moment, you have nothing to fear from me. I did not come here to confront you, nor is it my intention to harm you.” She opens her hands, pulls at her slashed sleeves to show that she us unarmed. “Come out of where you are hiding. I bring only peace.” 

Slowly, Sansa pushes back the handle of the wardrobe, the door falling open. The hinges are old and creak when they move. She steps out of the darkness and into the bleak winter sunlight, blinking at first, and tugs her hood back down. The Dragon Queen inhales a breath.

“Sit,” she says, waving a hand at the wooden chair against the table. “I meant what I said: I mean you no harm.”

Although some thread of her soul remains deeply suspicious, Sansa slides down to sit in the chair anyways. The Dragon Queen rounds the table and takes the seat opposite her, laying her hands upon the table so Sansa can see that she carries no weapons. 

“The cameras have been watching your every movement,” the Dragon Queen tells Sansa matter-of-factly a moment later, her face remaining completely emotionless. “You only got this far because I wanted to see you. Because you interested me.”

Sansa wipes at her mouth with one still-gloved hand. “You’re part of the Targaryen evil,” she spits at her. “I don’t want you to be interested in me.” As she says it, she knows that she is lying through her gritted teeth, for she, too, is surely equally as interested in the Dragon Queen as she is in Sansa. She only hopes that the Dragon Queen will not notice the intrigued spark in her eyes. 

The other woman only shrugs, leaning back in her throne of pale wood. “It is the interest, which you deride so, that saved you from a slow death at the hands of one of my guards. And your own fighting spirit, too, for I did not make it too easy for you.” She makes no move towards Sansa, only waves a dismissive hand. “Please, forget the fact of my family for this conversation. My Targaryen name is a barrier between us, and I would throw it aside in order to speak plainly to you.”

Her tongue tied, Sansa can only nod.

“My thanks.” She crosses her legs, folding her hands together atop her knees. “And you may call me Daenerys rather than that — _name_. Do me the courtesy of giving your own name?”

Something impulsive and utterly impractical rises in Sansa, and she boldly answers “Sansa Stark.” 

The Dragon Queen — _Daenerys_ — raises a neutral brow. “So I had thought.” They sit in silence for a while afterwards, each of them attempting to commit the other to memory, but shying away from their gaze, until Daenerys speaks again. 

“You know, I will have to report you,” Daenerys says conversationally. “And bring you back to my family’s seat to be questioned, after this conversation is over.” Despite the threat that is clear in her words, she makes no aggressive move towards Sansa, her hands remaining still where they are and no malice in her violet eyes. 

Sansa pushes a strand of hair back from her cheek and tries to pretend that the conversation ending is far in the future. “Everything that I have gone through so far, I have survived. I do not think this will be any different.”

There seems to be a silent pain in Daenerys’s expression. “Indeed, you may survive after it, but survival is far away from living.” She sighs heavily. “I do not want to do this, you know, but there is no choice. If I do not, it will be I who will suffer at the hands of my own family.” True, real fear rises in her eyes, and Sansa wonders at what her family must do to her, to induce such fear in her. 

She locks her gaze with Daenerys’s. “I understand.” A message of gentle support, Sansa accepting her fate.

Daenerys slides a hand onto the table-top, her fingers open instead of clenched, almost as if she wants Sansa to take it. Sansa does not, but she wants to. 

“There is still time yet, before I must take you away. Talk, Sansa. You are free here.” 

“You’re different,” Sansa says, frowning. “You’re not mad like the rest of them.” 

Daenerys presses her lips together, forming a thin pink line. “I wish that were true. I, too, feel the Targaryen madness, but I am simply better at hiding it.” She looks up from her clasped hands to meet Sansa’s gaze. “I’ve never harmed anyone who hasn’t deserved it, though. I want to find a new way to use the Targaryen madness. A better way.” 

Sansa feels a spark of hope run down her spine. “I thought you were evil,” she confesses, suddenly. “When I first saw your ship descending through the clouds. But you’re not evil, are you? It is only your family’s name that is evil.” 

“Still,” Daenerys’s fingers twist and turn in each other while she replies, “sometimes I feel that I will always be seen as a Targaryen, and evil, never as myself. Sometimes, it feels as if all my silent struggles against my family are in vain.” Her eyes are forlorn and lonely.

She dearly wants to console Daenerys, but she does not think that she can provide the comfort that Daenerys desperately needs. Finally, she says, her voice quiet, yet there nonetheless, “They’re not in vain, because I know that you’re not evil. And I am determined that I will free you from the burdens that your family name places upon you.” 

There is the ghost of a smile on Daenerys’s lips, small and sad. “I want that more than anything in the world, but you have forgotten that you are still my captive and that I must still bring you in.”

“Defy them, then,” Sansa replies immediately, her words harsh and clear. 

Opposite her, Daenerys sighs, rubbing at her forehead with one ungloved hand. “If I let you free and pretend that you escaped, you will become a wanted criminal by my family. My brothers will hunt you down, and they are far less gentle than I. Their Targaryen rage hungers for blood, and they will not stop until they have been satisfied.”

One corner of Sansa’s mouth lifts in a crooked smile. “I am already wanted by the Lannisters. I think that I can handle another family wanting my head, as well.” 

“My brothers are far stronger than the Lannisters.” There is genuine concern in Daenerys’s voice. “I will set you free from here, after this, but you must know that you face a much more terrible threat than the Lannisters. And that the circumstances of our next meeting may be in far darker times than these.” 

“I think I can outrun them. And when we grow strong enough, we will fight back against the Targaryens and free you.” 

Daenerys’s eyes are glassy. “I hope so. I dearly hope so.”

In the distance, there is the great, booming sound of a bell tolling, and Sansa knows that it tolls for her alone. That her time here is up, and that now she must be taken away, back to the clutches of Targaryens worse than Daenerys. The thought makes her queasy, but she pushes it aside and offers Daenerys her wrists to bind. 

“I will not do that to you,” Daenerys says, her hands a burning contact against Sansa’s as she gently pushes them down, pale skin against dark leather gloves. “And you may disguise your identity. Put your hood back up.”

Sansa does so, and follows Daenerys blindly as she leads her away from her quarters, down the maze of silver corridors, until they come out into whirling snows. There, terrifying and majestic, waits Daenerys’s ship, with the gangway already lowered to rest amid the snows. It still makes Sansa fearful, but not of Daenerys; instead, it is the Targaryens whose colours the ship bears that scares her. 

“You could escape,” offers Daenerys. “I could say that I tried to stop you, but you ran away.”

She stiffens. “I will not run and leave you at the mercy of your family. Perish that thought.” The winds grow stronger, almost as if there are voices woven into the air. 

“Then, Sansa, I am truly sorry. May we meet again once it is all over.”

Nothing more is said as Daenerys takes Sansa into her ship, not touching her but keeping her distance, and leads her down to the cells. Sansa remains still and stoic even as Daenerys’s eyes glance up at her, pained. Daenerys presses a button, and the door locks, sliding into place with a harsh click that marks the end of Sansa’s freedom. Not forever. Just for a while. 

When Daenerys leaves, she does not gaze back at Sansa, and she would not have it that way, either. 

There is a short, empty while, full of nothing but silence and tears that will not fall, before the floor starts to heat beneath Sansa’s leather boots and the great engine of the ship starts up. She gazes out of the window, wistful, but not mournful. Not mournful any longer. 

* * *

The ship is starting to lift off the ground when Sansa looks up at the sound of footsteps against harsh metal floors. And there, standing in front of her with cheeks flushed from running, is Daenerys, again, pushing the lock open with violent hands.

Sansa stands up from the bench she had been sitting on, intensely surprised. “What are you doing?” she pants, excitement making her heart race faster in her chest.

“I’m not giving you over to my family.” There is a note of fear in her voice, but her determination is clear in her sparkling eyes. “Fuck the consequences — I’m saving _you_.”

“Why... thank you.” Sansa says. 

“Thanks are unnecessary.” Daenerys hisses. “Run, and do not look back,” she says, and Sansa does, sprinting away with little thought for her dignity. She looks back once she’s away, seeing Daenerys’s eyes flicking around in panic, and it spurs her on more, her legs beginning to burn as she runs further through the underbelly of the _Drogon_ , gaze fixed on the exit to leave the ship finally.

Although she does not want to abandon Daenerys to the mercy of her family, she has no choice: Daenerys had set her free, and commanded her to run, and so she did. Sprinting towards the exit, towards the promise of a reunion with her remaining family, she gasps in a deep breath of air when, at last, she jumps out of the already-opened exit hatch and onto the pure-white snow that coats the ground of the Wall. 

Jon is waiting there, his eyes wide and shocked. “Sansa,” he whispers, stepping forwards with blurry eyes. 

“Jon,” Sansa replies, running to him and sweeping him up into a hug, her spirit warming in his arms despite the cold around them. Her eyes flutter closed, only pure joy in her heart in this moment

“I believed that I’d never see you again, Sansa,” he mutters. “And yet, you are back again. With me.” Almost as if he does not believe it. 

She sighs contentedly, breaking the hug to smile at Jon. “It’s just like Ned used to tell us. When the cold winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. And you and I are pack, Jon.” No matter who his father might be. 

“Do you know of any other Starks who might survived?” His brow is furrowed in concern, but hope is clear in his dark eyes and the smile slowly rising to his face. 

Sansa nods, a joyful tear falling down her cheek. “Arya’s still alive, and she’s with me. We’re pack, and you’re a part of our pack too, now.” She smiles at Jon and types out a message to Arya: _I have Jon. I’ll meet you as we planned._

* * *

It takes only a short while after she and Jon arrive for Arya to land the larger ship and walk out to greet the two of them. There are tears flowing freely down each of their cheeks while they embrace, and embrace they do, at length. They are so tightly wrapped up in each other that she is unsure whose furs she is resting her cheek against, for it seems to her that both Arya and Jon’s furs have melded together. And when they finally break their hug, the smiles on their faces are indefatigable, even though her cheeks are starting to hurt. 

“Welcome back home,” Arya tells Jon and Sansa as she leads them to the upper deck of the ship, already moving to the controls with an easy, lithe confidence. She twists one of the knobs on the control panel and a block of lights flicks on, the engines starting to hum under the floor beneath them. 

The ship is warm from the heating systems having already been activated, and Sansa frowns as she brushes her leather-covered fingertips across the vent, feeling the heat on the pads of her fingers. “Why’s the heating still on, Arya?” She asks, stripping her leather gloves from her hands and tucking them into the pouch on her belt. 

“Um.” Her sister fidgets with the controls, a light blush spreading over her cheeks. “Well, I _may_ have stolen more than merely gold on my trip to Casterly.”

Sansa sighs, used to Arya’s disorderly and chaotic nature, even when on missions, by now. “What did you steal that you shouldn’t have done _this time_ , Arya?” 

“In the back,” Arya flicks a hand to demonstrate where, exactly, _the back_ is, and Sansa goes to the said _back_ , expecting for Arya to have brought back some impractical trinket or a historic sword of some kind (she seems to have some morbid fascination with blades). Instead of that, though, she finds... a girl with long, golden hair, although it is dimmed a little under the darkening skies. Her green eyes flick up from the book in her hands to meet Sansa’s, and she notices how much this girl resembles a younger Cersei with quiet terror. 

“What is your name?” Sansa asks her, voice quiet and tempered by caution. 

“Myrcella Lannister.” Golden hair falls lightly over her shoulder, and she flicks it away unthinkingly. “You are Sansa Stark, I presume? Arya has told me of you. I must say, I am impressed by the operation that you have here.”

Sansa turns around immediately after even though she knows that it is rude, disapproval lowering her brows and her smile falling into a frown. “ _Arya!_ ” She yells.

Not Cersei’s _daughter_ , as well. 


End file.
